


The Shrike

by WickedSheWolf



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Drama & Romance, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Goodneighbor (Fallout), Nuka-World Amusement Park (Fallout), Romance, Smut, The Institute (Fallout)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21677362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedSheWolf/pseuds/WickedSheWolf
Summary: The ample brunette sat curled on the edge of the bed, her worn eyes following the soft motes of dust pirouetting in the columns of hazy morning light. She thought about the recurring dream, the vault, the past she so desperately tried to return to for so long. It was slipping away from her, strand by strand, like threads of worn fabric. That scared her more than anything; the slow, dead rot of whatever humanity she had left. Hell, it was the reason she had left Nuka World all those weeks ago. What she had become, what she was becoming - a shadow of who she once was. What would Nate have said, if he had seen what she'd done to herself?// Exploring the life of the SS post Nuka World raider invasion, along with companion relationships.
Relationships: Robert Joseph MacCready/Female Sole Survivor, Robert Joseph MacCready/Sole Survivor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. The Shrike

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new here, but not new the Fallout universe. I've had this little story brewing in my brain for quite some time now as I play through 4 for the umpteenth time, so I'm happy to put it down for others to read.
> 
> I apologize for any errors and I hope you enjoyed! I appreciate every read, comment and karma - they give me encouragement to keep sharing! 
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> \- Wicked

She dreamed again that night. The same dream as always.

She was standing on the sharp cusp of an endless chasm, staring into an inky blackness. She stood for some time, staring into the swollen gulf of black, though she longed to turn away from it. As she stared within it, she could hear every note of pain swirling inside of her head, materialize as a ravenous and red-eyed beast, stirring in blackness. It reached out from inside the chasm and wrapped its long obsidian claws around her torso and yanked her into the blackness. She screamed, yet heard no sound, as she plummeted further into the nether. It never ended. She never reached the bottom, where all that fear, agony and anger layed in wait, its tongue coiling, savoring her as it watched her slip into its black and frigid abode . She awoke, just before the final descent.  
It was all the same- pain, the inability to move forward, it all festering so deeply inside of her, it invaded even her dreams.

The vault, Nate, Shaun - the details were fading, their faces contorted in grainy tin-type. But the pain never changed. It was always there, though she did her best to quell it; chems, liquor, the occasional intense and bitter, colossal meltdown. It remained, rotting and she pushed it down inside, anxiously hiding it in the small space we all have, the one we hide away from the world. But it would not waver in its torment, only bide its time, until she closed her eyes once again.  
The ample brunette sat curled on the edge of the bed, her worn eyes following the soft motes of dust pirouetting in the columns of hazy morning light. She thought about the recurring dream, the vault, the past she so desperately tried to return to for so long. It was slipping away from her, strand by strand, like threads of worn fabric. That scared her more than anything; the slow, dead rot of whatever humanity she had left. Hell, it was the reason she had left Nuka World all those weeks ago. What she had become, what she was becoming - a shadow of who she once was. What would Nate have said, if he had seen what she'd done to herself? Would he have loved her still? The thought made her stomach simmer.

She'd managed a few hours sleep, before waking in a cold sweat. She laid awake, in the dusky hours, staring at a water stain on the ceiling above her bed, -the bed which smelled like vomit and fresh dirt. Though she had slept in worse, to be sure.  
Now she sat motionless, on the edge of the drooping bed, lost in the murk of her thoughts. Slowly and like the swelling of a wave, she slipped back into the present. She tightened her grip on the rusty screwdriver in her hand and went back to work on her leg. The poor piece of junk had taken its fair share of abuse with very little maintenance in between her travels. It was really coming back to bite her in the ass. She could feel the internal mechanisms slipping, which usually indicated that it was close to a malfunction. _Fucking great._

She tightened the flat-headed screw attached to her knee plate. "That'll have to do," she sighed.  
She tucked the screwdriver back into her pocket and flicked her eyes back to the smudged and dusty window. In the distance, beyond the brick walls of the Hotel Rexford, outside her sullied window and motes of dust, she could hear the dull murmur of a growing crowd. A welcome distraction, she thought.  
She slipped off of the mattress and pulled on her dusty boots, noticing once again, that a hole was forming in the top of her right shoe, big enough for her toe to peek out. Nothing a generous strip of duct tape couldn't fix. 

After she had hastily laced up her boots, she grabbed her messenger bag from its spot of the floor and slung it over her shoulder. She tried not to notice, the depressingly silent sway of fabric, which might normally chink with the delightful sound of a cap stash. She'd spent the remainder of her money on the hotel room and a bottle of vodka, which was seeking its vengeance in the pit of her stomach, as she trudged to the bedroom door.  
The forecast for the day was bleak: A chance of violent vomiting, followed by burgeoning despair and anxiety, with hunger pains and denial later in the day. _Gonna be a wet one out there folks._

She flung open the door and ambled out, her slight frame immediately colliding with a man, whose only crime had been walking past her door at that exact moment. The two almost stayed upright, until her leg decided it was the perfect time to malfunction. She heard it, before she felt it. Something in her knee gave out, the smallest snapping of metal. Her leg buckled and the rest of her body went with it, taking the poor bystander with her.  
As the dust settled, she let out a defeated and exhausted sigh. 

"Sorry," she mumbled, as she lay there on the floor, staring at the decaying ceiling, thinking about how her father had always made fun of how clumsy she was. Over two-hundred years old and she still couldn't walk in a straight line without finding the nearest object and bouncing her head off of it. 

"If you wanted to talk to me, you could have just started with hello," the man said, his voice seemed familiar to her. She craned her neck to look down at him, as he lay sprawled partially over her midsection. He looked strange without his green hat, but she recognized him from the night before. A man who went by MacCready, who trolled the Third Rail looking for work. The kind of work she did herself, because she was capless and never needed anyone to do her killing for her. She had turned down his offer and spent the last of her caps on drinks at the bar. Looking at him then, his willowy frame draped over her, she couldn't help but notice something in his face. Some certain knowing that swirled behind his lackluster blue pools. It scared her.

"Oh, get off," she hissed, pushing herself into a sitting position and pulling her legs away from him, as if he were a rodent scurrying past. The slight man stood up, snatching his green hat from the floor, giving it a good dust-off and plopped it back onto his head. 

"Anyone ever teach you any manners?" MacCready replied, as he straightened the lapels of his raggedy coat.  
The brunette gave her eyes a roll and focused on her leg, the heap of useless metal that it was. 

"I said sorry, what else do you want?" she sighed, as she propped her leg up and tried to assess the damage. 

"You could make up for it by hiring me," he suggested, the ghost of grin danced on the lines of his face. 

"I don't need a bodyguard," she replied, as she had told him before and once again as she stumbled from the Third Rail, three sheets to the wind the night prior. It was a miracle she had even made it back to her hotel room, with the state she was in. 

"Not saying you do, but-" he began, but was cut off by the livid flick of her fiery eyes. 

"Can you find someone else to pester?" she snapped at him, her fingers dipping beneath the coils of her mechanical leg to find the source of damage. MacCready held up his hands, in a peacemaking gesture, to which she ignored. She was preoccupied, pulling out a jagged piece of metal. She inspected the snapped piece in the palm of her gloved hand and let out a defeated sigh. 

"That doesn't look good kiddo," he said, shaking his head. 

"I'm at least two-hundred years older than you, little man," she responded, as she pocketed the broken piece, "I was alive before your great grandparents had even met," she added. 

"Explains why you look like shi- crap," he said, almost under his breath. Her head snapped in his direction, her face lined with all the venom of a coiling rattlesnake. 

"Today is not the day to be on my bad side. If I were you, I'd find the small, dark hole you crawled out of and scurry back, before I decide I'd like a new pair of boots." 

"Alright, alright," he said, looking bewildered. "Let me at least help you up," he added, offering her a hand. She begrudgingly accepted. He hoisted her up, until she was stable enough to lean against the bedraggled, yellow papered wall. "Can you walk on that thing?" he asked, looking at the slender, patchwork metal limb that was her leg. 

"Limp, maybe," she replied softly, as she moved it up and down. Each movement groaned slightly, as metal and hydraulics went haywire within. 

"Might know someone who can fix that," he said, seeming more friendly than before. 

"Let me guess, the information will cost me?" 

"Just a few caps." 

"A few caps, I don't have. Besides, I'm perfectly capable of fixing it myself," she said, mostly talking to herself. 

"How'd you end up with a leg like that anyway?" he asked, innocently enough. 

"By losing my real leg to a behemoth," she replied, her eyes finally meeting his. 

"Ouch, what did it do, rip it clean off?" he said, his face scrunched up at the thought. 

"Something like that," she said, already tired of the conversation. Outside, she could hear the crowd, growing increasingly louder and remembered why she'd even gotten out of bed in the first place.  
"Was nice... running into you," she said, her voice dancing somewhere between irritation and amusement, "but I've gotta go." 

"You gonna go listen to Hancock's speech, right?" MacCready said, following her as she hobbled down the stairs. 

"No, I don't want your company," she said, answering his question before he'd even asked it. 

"Well good, I wasn't offerin' it. Just trying to be nice, because you're in my way," he replied.  
She let out a growl and stepped to the side, so her back was flat against the wall. 

"There," she hissed, pointing down the stairs. 

"Well, thanks ma'am," he responded with a smile as he passed by her. He was almost around the corner when he stopped and looked at her. She really wanted to punch his face.  
"The name is Fox, right?" he inquired. 

"Just get the fuck outta here, MacCready," she seethed. 

She hobbled down the cobbled street slowly, keeping her head low and avoiding eye contact with everyone she passed. She was already garnering attention with her metal leg and stiff limp, she didn't need any extra eyes on her.  
The crowd was hushing itself by the time she arrived, the residents of Goodneighbor only exchanging whispers and looks of curiosity. She leaned against a nearby lamp post, scanning the sea of faces cautiously. A second lifetime of poor decisions had left her with very few friends and a whole lot more enemies than she'd bargained for. She couldn't be too careful. Her eyes caught the familiar set of brown pools that belonged to MacCready. He smirked at her, from his place at the back of the crowd and offered her a small two-fingered wave. She narrowed her eyes and gave him a swift and satisfying middle finger salute. He only chuckled to himself, which somehow infuriated her even further. With a disgusted huff, she turned her back to him and focused on the balcony of the state house. The door opened and the crowd went silent. She studied them all, their expressions that of some strange reverence. She'd seen the look before, an unquestionable expression of trust and respect. There had been a time she had looked down at similar faces and felt the surge of power and godhood. That was behind her, though. What lay ahead was less... exciting, but with less blood and carnage, she hoped. 

The famous (or infamous depending on who you were asking) Hancock sauntered from the the mouth of the door and stood before the people, a confident grin on his face. There was something there, in his eyes, something she might not have noticed in her time before the Great War. Benevolence, to put it simply. All at once she felt the familiar surge of guilt. She looked down at her feet, felt the pang of agony coiling in her gut, his cold fingers clutching at her arms.  
Fox turned on her heel to hobble away, but came face-to-face with MacCready. 

"Leaving already? He hasn't even said his favorite line yet," the doe-eyed gunman teased. She imagined punching him, square in his mouth. He'd lose a few teeth, at the very least. _It would feel good._

"My god, you are relentless," she mumbled, turning back around. If she started an argument in front of everyone, it would garner attention - which she very much did not want. He scooted closer to her, his eyes boring holes in the back of her head. 

"What's the matter, not a fan?" he asked. 

"Don't much care for crowds," she sighed, crossing her arms again and leaning against the pole once more. 

"That's not what I hear," he replied. She knew from his tone that she was in trouble. 

"Harassing a cripple? Seems a little below you, don't you think?" 

"A cripple? I've heard you called a lot of things, but definitely not a cripple," he said softly. Fox shifted uncomfortably and tried to seem disinterested in his words, though her heart thrummed raucously inside of her chest.  
"Let's see, I know the Butcher of the Commonwealth," he said, counting on his fingers, "The Red Reaper, the Banshee, the Scourge of the Slog, my personal favorite, the Shrike, oh... and of course," he looked around at the sea of citizens, "Overboss," he finished, loudly. 

She turned to glare at him, her eyes smoldering coals of rage.

"Shut your trap, you big-mouthed weasel," she hissed. 

"That's rude, I'd never-" the sarcastic gunman was cut short, as Hancock addressed the people.

She turned back around, slowly, keeping her temper in check. There was a time she would have gleefully shoved a combat knife into the gunman's neck without even blinking. With a deep, purifying breath, she focused on getting the hell out of there. There was no telling how much MacCready knew about her less than savory past or where he'd gotten the information and though she could handle herself, she wasn't about to take her chances against the best shot in the Commonwealth (or so he bragged).

Gradually, she began to toe back into the street, her eyes set on an alleyway to her right. If she could reach it before anyone noticed, she could at least get her thoughts together and eliminate any witnesses, if it came to that. After a few hesitant steps, she took off in a haul, as quickly as she could on her groaning and damaged leg. Sparks of white, hot pain eddied under her eyelids as she pushed past the swelling agony in her thigh. Something was very wrong with her leg, something she knew she would not be able to fix on her own. Which meant traveling back to the Institute, which then meant having to face Shaun.  
All these thoughts swept her up, battering her around, as the pain pushed and pulled like the undertow. Her mind was fragmenting in a hundred different directions, as she tried to focus on the most important task; escaping. 

Once she had passed through the opening of the dirty alcove, she scuttled around a corner and leaned against the brick wall, catching her breath and wincing through the tight pain in the flesh just above her metal leg. The warm brick felt good against the clammy skin of her forehead as she leaned into it, tight coils of pain radiating up through her hip and into her spine.

"Piece of Institute shit," she hissed, moments from smashing her leg into the brick wall and being done with the whole thing entirely. 

"You left me back there and I thought we were having such a nice conversation," MacCready's voice was like a bitter swirl of copper in her mouth, as he interrupted her heady silence. If she wasn't so out of it, she might have jumped at his sudden materialization. She peered up from under her arm at him and just rolled her eyes.

"If you're here to kill me, Hotshot, I got news for you," she said through a groan, "better men have tried."

He snorted and reached into his coat pocket, fishing out a crumbled pack of cigarettes. She watched as he produced a book of matches and lit one on the wall, transferring the pale flame to his cigarette before flicking it to the pavement. He took a long, exaggerated drag and exhaled, blowing smoke in her direction.

"Now, why would I want to kill you?"

"I dunno, seems like something a hired gun would do," she whispered, coming down from the pain in a soft, hazy cloud of reds and whites. She twisted on her good leg and leaned her back against the brick, her eyes never leaving his.

"I haven't made up my mind yet," he said, casually ashing his cigarette with a flick of his index finger.

"An indecisive mercenary? That's different," she poked at him, feeling a cold sweat gathering along the fine hairs haloed around her pale face. Her eyelids suddenly felt very heavy, her arms sluggish as they hung like dead weight at her sides.

"I don't know if I should kill you and collect all those caps from the Disciples or turn you over to Preston Garvey and the Minutemen for even more. I mean, you can see what a dilemma this is," he sighed, as if he was merely deciding on what to eat for dinner.

She chuckled, clutching at her side and closed her eyes, letting her head loll back against the wall. "What makes you think it'd be that easy?"

"You're crippled, remember?" his voice billowed with a warm wit, like the smooth belly of a very sharp knife. If he hadn't been trying to kill her, she might've admired it.

"Fair point," she winced, feeling the leftover vodka churn inside her otherwise empty stomach. "Do I have any say in the decision making?"

"Not today, lady," he said as he took a final drag from his cigarette and dropped it to the pavement, crushing it under the heel of his boot.

Fox opened her mouth to say something, to plead for her life perhaps, or appeal to his better nature, but a numb blackness washed over her before she could finish her thought. It started in the tips of her toes and fingers, working its way to the creases of her mouth and eyes, until it scooped her up and devoured her whole. She crumpled to the dirty pavement in an awkward, clanging heap.


	2. Bite Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, she wondered if she had dreamed the entire encounter with MacCready, until she noticed the fuzzy outline of his disheveled and slight figure standing at her bedroom window. Her sore and swollen eyes watched, as he stood in a cloud of his own cigarette smoke, his shoulder leaned into the window frame, his ankles crossed at the floor. He looked like a blue-eyed gargoyle, watching the town below bustle from his stony perch.
> 
> // MacCready decides what to do with Fox and as they make their way across the Financial District, they run into some trouble.

Her head hurt. It felt as if someone had opened up her skull, reached their hands inside and scrambled her brain like eggs.  
Fox groaned into the folds of her arm, as she tried to flex her legs. There was a moment of panic, as she found her left leg numb. It happened sometimes, as if her brain had rewired itself overnight and she woke up thinking she still had both legs intact. After a moment, she remembered that her left leg was nothing more than digested goo those days and gave a relieved sigh.  
She peeled back her sticky eyelids to find the same strange water stain that dripped above her own hotel bed. She scowled, leaned forward and propped herself up on her elbows to glance around the room. _I am in my room. This is my room._  
For a moment, she wondered if she had dreamed the entire encounter with MacCready, until she noticed the fuzzy outline of his disheveled and slight figure standing at her bedroom window. Her sore and swollen eyes watched, as he stood in a cloud of his own cigarette smoke, his shoulder leaned into the window frame, his ankles crossed at the floor. He looked like a blue-eyed gargoyle, watching the town below bustle from his stony perch.

"You fainted," he said absently, as he stared down at the street below, taking a drag from another cigarette hanging between his middle and index finger. She parted her lips to speak but could only manage a small squeak from her dry throat. The gunman finally turned to look at her, raising a brow as he studied the bruised circles under her glazed eyes. 

She tried to speak again, this time clearing her throat, "I would have thought you'd kill me by now," she rasped, her eyes fluttering closed slowly, as she fought the burgeoning desire to sleep.

"We're going to meet up with your old pals, the Minutemen," MacCready replied, flicking his cigarette ash on the floor. "They’re not very happy with you," he sighed, studying her face, as if he were looking for some kind of answer there. She only sighed, low and gravelly in her throat. “Wonder if they plan on executing you, or just throwing you in a prison cell,” he mused. 

"Do you plan on carrying me the whole way there, because I'm not walking anywhere on this piece of junk," she finally said, her speech slightly slurred with exhaustion. She was dehydrated and practically starving, yet here she was, in some kind of hostage situation, with a hired gun, who was convinced he could get her to walk across Boston on a broken leg, against her will.

"You're doing a really shi- bad job at keeping yourself alive right now," he said, the hint of a chuckle in the easy lilt of his voice.

"I'm only being honest," she shrugged lazily, as she drug herself to the edge of the bed to fish around in her messenger bag for a bottle of water, which she would never find. She rummaged fervently, tossing out a roll of duct tape, an empty liquor bottle, a dose of Addictol and a tin of Mentats. MacCready regarded her, a look of pity sewn into the slope of his brows.

"What on earth are you looking for?" he asked, giving the empty liquor bottle a gentle kick and sending it into a twirl under the bed. Fox looked up, a frustrated scowl on her face.

"Water," she growled at him as the pushed her slender fingers through her messy locks in frustration. The gunman gave a loud, irritated sigh and took a long draw from his cigarette. "Look, if you're thinking about shooting me, by all means, just do it," she seethed, the torrid words falling from behind clenched teeth. “Because I’d prefer death to your company.”

"I already told you, I made up my mind and-" he was cut short by a knock at the door. His hand immediately went for the rifle slung over his shoulder, fingering the trigger-guard with calloused and experienced digits. Fox froze on the bed, a hand pressed to her mouth, the other snaking into her boot to feel for the cold reassuring metal of her combat knife. She found nothing. He must've searched her while she was passed out, which felt… wrong. _How did he even manage to get me up here?_

MacCready approached the door and pressed his shoulder into the door-frame. He gently lifted the bolt of his rifle, loading a round into the chamber as he spoke.

"Who is it?" he barked through the paper-thin wall. Fox just waited, uselessly. 

"It's Ernie man, come on let me in. You know if Claire sees me, I'm in deep shit," a voice replied.

"Alright, alright," MacCready replied, shouldering his rifle once more and opened the door. 

A ginger-haired man with a small ruddy nose, scuttled into the room and shut the door behind himself. He was dressed in dirty flannel, his jeans faded and ripped, much like most other folks in the Commonwealth. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth, what was left of them, were yellowed and rotting far beyond repair. In his left hand, he carried a toolbox, which clanked as he pivoted around MacCready to look at Fox.

"Well shit, I didn't believe you," Ernie said, rubbing the back of his neck as he appraised the metal leg poised on the bed in front of him. "That's definitely Institute work," Ernie said excitedly, taking a step towards the brunette woman and pointing at her leg, "I took apart a gen two once and they had pretty much the same build." Fox recoiled softly away from him, bringing her leg to the side of the bed and staring at him distrustfully.

MacCready pointed to the redhead, "If anyone can fix that Institute garbage, Ernie can," he said with a firm nod. He gestured for Ernie to take over, as he stepped back to sit in a chair.  
Fox shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, as Ernie knelt in front of her. She glanced at the gunman, who had lit up another cigarette and she wished she had one of her own. 

She'd never let anyone tinker with her leg before, other than Shaun. It felt like an invasion of privacy, in a way. People were put off by missing limbs. Uncomfortable people asked stupid and invasive questions.

"How'd you lose your leg anyhow?" Ernie asked, as he took out a flat-tipped screwdriver and began removing her knee plate. She only sighed in return, shifting uncomfortably on the bed.

"It’s a long story" she said softly, trying to avoid MacCready's stare. The two men both waited for something more; a story, a tall-tale, a joke. She gritted her teeth, the muscles in her jaw flexing tightly. “Do you see any damage?” she asked Ernie, as he dipped his hand into the mess of coils. She attempted to change the subject. 

He shook his head once, his tongue bent over his upper lip as he concentrated on his task. “No, nothing yet,” he replied.

Fox was relieved to have avoided the conversation, but somehow knew it would not be the end of her interrogation. MacCready looked at her, his eyes full of curiosity, paranoia maybe. She looked at the floor, her hands curled together in her lap. She couldn’t have seemed more ashamed had she tried.  
The gunman leaned forward, the old pre-war chair squeaking ever-so-slightly. He tapped his cigarette, carelessly ashing it to the floor once more. “How does someone like you, get your hands on Institute tech anyway?” he asked carefully, forcing her to make eye contact with him. She wasn’t surprised he asked, she’d been waiting on it. She gazed at him a moment, her eyes small and tired, before looking out the sullied window she’d sat in front of earlier that day and sighed noisily. 

“I have connections,” she finally replied, as she ran her hand over her wrist in an anxious motion.  
MacCready narrowed his eyes, took the last drag from his cigarette and sat back, looking very unsatisfied with her answer. 

“You were hired to kill me, why don’t you tell me what you know?” she asked slowly, her eyes shifting back to his slumped figure in the chair. He shrugged and flicked the cigarette to the floor.

“All I know is how many caps you’re worth.”  
She snorted, tearing her eyes away from his and propping her chin into her hand. She imagined what it would feel like to punch him in the teeth and how many she could manage to knock out. 

"Got it!" Ernie said, tapping her leg with his screwdriver. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.  
After attaching a few tubes, the ginger-haired man went back about putting her knee plate back on and gestured for her to stand up. She followed his directions and stood to her feet, reaching out to the sides with her hands to steady herself. She lifted her robotic leg up and gave her ankle a small roll. It felt fluid, no groaning, no clanking, just smooth movements in each of her tendons.

"Wow," she said softly, as she dropped her foot back to the floor, "You're good," she said, offering the mechanic a soft smile. Perhaps the first smile she'd worn in months. MacCready eyed her a moment, seemingly amused. She caught the glint of his eye, just before he stood to his feet and swiftly ushered Ernie out of the room. He turned to face her, his hands crossed over his chest, an exhausted look on his face.

"Get your shi- stuff together," he said, gesturing to her messenger bag.

"Well I'm not a cripple anymore, you think you can force me back to Fort Independence all by yourself?" she asked, tilting her head to study his face.

"You're not even armed," he said with a snort. "It’ll be easier on both of us if you just cooperate,” he added with a sigh. 

She raised her brows thoughtfully and finally gave him a shrug as she snatched her bag off of the floor. “Well, lead the way then, Hotshot,” she sighed dramatically as she shouldered her bag.

“Ah, one more thing,” he said, producing a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket and dangling them in front of her, like a pendulum. His mouth was tied up to one side in a smug grin.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she said, her voice a low growl, her face a cold sheet of deadpan disbelief. 

“Hey, you don’t get the nickname, _Butcher of the Commonwealth_ without having killed a few people. I wasn’t born yesterday lady,” he said, grabbing her wrist in his hand and yanking her forward. He clapped the cuff closed over the soft flesh of her wrist and tightened it as much as he could. Fox gave a hissing grimace as he repeated the same movement on the second hand. 

She held up her hands and jerked them apart, chinking the short chain twice before glaring at him. He only lifted his shoulders in a _“sorry about it_ gesture and turned towards the door. 

“I’ve killed a man with nothing more than a bobby pin, you know,” she grumbled, following him closely. He went rigid for a moment, before snatching the doorknob in his hand and giving it a rough turn. He then turned to grab the fabric of her coat and gently pulled her forward, so she was in front of him. “Good thinking,” she sighed, giving him a wicked glance through the side of her eyes. He ignored her. 

They made their way down the stairs and out of the Hotel Rexford, Fox trudging with her hands clasped in front of her, MacCready with his rifle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. They didn’t garner much attention, perhaps because MacCready’s reputation was fairly well known to the general public and she looked like the type of raider delinquent that might be escorted out of the city. Or publicly executed. 

“I need some fucking water,” she practically growled, as they crossed the square in front of the state house. MacCready made an irritated sound from behind her and the next thing she knew, he was shoving a partially empty bottle of water into her hands. She fumbled with it for a moment, before bringing it to her lips and guzzling it greedily. After she had finished, she took a long, deep breath and endured a new and exciting wave of nausea, her stomach flipping back and forth as the water rose and fell within an otherwise empty pit.

“You had water this whole time?” she asked with an acidic flick of her eyes, crushing the bottle in her hands and tossing it into an alley.

“No,” he answered flippantly, “I got it out of your bag while you were asleep,” he added. She whipped around to glare at him then, her hazel eyes filled with smoldering smoke and brimstone. 

“You went through my stuff?” she said, her voice just below a shout. The reedy man glanced around, finding a few curious faces watching them.

“Well yeah, you’re a wanted criminal, you don’t have privacy anymore.”

“And you’re a petty thief!” she spat back, her lips sewn up in an angry pout, matching the rough curl of her scowl. 

“Alright, hey, I resent that,” he said, forcefully turning her around to march forward again, “I prefer the term… opportunist,” he added, as if he actually believed it. She only snorted in reply, mumbling to herself as they passed through the gate into the Financial District.  
She’d only arrived through the very same gate a day ago. She thought she would be safest there. An entire community of society’s outcasts? Why wouldn’t they let a mass murderer and raider assimilate? She felt foolish having even tried. You don’t get to make that many mistakes and walk away unharmed. You don’t get to hurt people and not answer for it. It was only a matter of time, she thought. A matter of time before you give yourself enough rope to hang with.  
Perhaps that was why she wasn’t putting up much of a fight; she was just too tired to run anymore. If she wasn’t safe in Goodneighbor, where would she be? Holed up in some shack out on the edge of the Glowing Sea? Surely not. She could have traveled to the Island maybe, sought a place among the Children of Atom. No, again. She’d done her fair share of traveling. People beyond the Commonwealth somehow seemed even worse. Living on the fringe, paranoid and violent. And Boston was her home. It was the first place she’d gone after the Vault and Sanctuary. It only felt right to go back, even if it meant dying. Because she did deserve it, if she was being honest with herself. 

They walked without speaking for quite some time, the only sound was the gentle cadence of their boots on pavement. Fox was the first to break the silence between them. She cleared her throat and glanced over at MacCready, who was walking next to her, cautiously scanning the crop of buildings to their right.  
“Are the cuffs really necessary?” she said, lifting her clasped hands and gesturing towards him. He didn’t break his gaze from the buildings. 

“Yes,” he answered curtly.

“If we get ambushed and we most definitely will, you’re going to need my help,” she said with a smirk. She carefully stepped over a fallen lamp post and stopped mid-stride to stare at him. 

“I don’t need your help,” the gunman replied with a roll of his eyes, stopping to glare down at her. “Hey, here’s a good idea: how about you stop talking and start walking. Hm?”  
Fox growled and started forward again, ducking under an overturned car that was hanging by a mess of high-tension wires. 

“You’re going to get me killed, I hope you know. And if I know Preston, and I do, trust me, he’s not going to be very happy with you. You might not even get the bounty if you turn up with my rotting corpse. Hell, could you even carry it there?” she babbled on and on, twisting between a traffic jam frozen in time, slipping between cars and headed towards a crudely-constructed wooden fence that bottle-necked into an exit ramp. 

“Hey,” MacCready said, softly at first, but the brunette couldn’t hear him over the chattering of her own voice. “Hey!” he yelled loudly, picking up his pace to catch up to her, but as he slipped between the maze of cars, his coat snagged itself on a jagged, metal door. He turned, growled at it and ripped it off with a single yank.

“What?!” she shouted, turning to face him. She noticed the rifle clutched in his hands, like an extension of his body, pointing upwards, towards the face of an old building. It seemed so natural, the way his fingers found the bolt, his head tilted forward ever slightly, his left eye pinched shut, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his mouth, as he shifted his arm up, taking aim.  
Something whizzed past her head, striking the tire of the car directly in front of her. She yelped, jumping out of the way and skittering along the side of another car. She pressed her back against the rusty, jagged metal and sucked in a breath, holding it in her chest.

“Run!” he shouted before pulling the trigger. The gunshot didn’t phase him, his hands never wavering, his face serene, his fingers finding the bolt once more and lifting it to eject a spent casing.  
She heard someone behind her let out a blood-curdling scream as they plummeted from above to land atop the blacktop with a sickening crunch. Slowly, she began to crawl towards MacCready on her hands and knees.  
Another round hit the car behind her, she could feel the wind from the bullet kiss the back of her neck. Clumsily she stood to her feet and began to run. Another round snarled into the asphalt in front of her, sending her to the left, where she collided with an old bus and spun off of it like a pinball. She barely caught her footing, her shoulder screaming with pain, as blood began to trickle down her upper arm and pool in the crease of her elbow.  
MacCready fired again, as she closed the distance between them. She ducked behind him, crawling out of sight and gripping the soft flesh of her shoulder between trembling fingers.

“You okay?” he asked, as he loaded another round and fired again. 

She pulled her hand away and stared down at it, slick with blood. She probed her shoulder, finding no wound where she thought there might be one. She glared back down at her hand and turned over, then back again. Suddenly, she realized the pain was in her head and she lifted her hand to discover the mangled mess that was once her ear. She cried out, as her fingers touched the remains of what was once her cartilage, finding a raw and seeping wound instead. A bullet must have grazed her. More than grazed her. It took off half her goddamned ear.

“Just a scratch,” she breathed, barely hearing her own voice. Finally, she stood to her feet and peeked over the car she had taken cover behind. She could see three, maybe four people, nested in a tall building overlooking the freeway. Raiders, she thought. Maybe Gunners. Maybe her own kind.  
Suddenly, the exit ramp was filled with them. Some wielding crude boards and pipes, others carrying assault rifles or pistols. They all wore the same expression on their faces, one she too might have worn at one time. Blood rage. Most likely fueled by an inhuman amount of psycho.  
The raiders descended on the pair like a herd of cattle, screaming and swinging like barbarians.

“MacCready, take these off!” Fox shouted, pushing her hands in front of her. 

He fired another round at a sniper nested in the building and hit his target without even trying. “I can’t!” he replied, his eyes never leaving the enemy. 

“What? Why?!” she screeched at him, a hideous scowl on her face. The gunman fired again, this time hitting a woman who had crossed half the distance between them. Her skull exploded like a melon, bits and pieces flying in every direction. Her comrades seemed indifferent. 

“Uh,” he said, flicking the bolt again, “There aren’t any keys,” he replied. 

“Are you fucking serious!” she shouted, watching helplessly as the army of chem-induced maniacs quickly began to close the small gap between them. She let out a frustrated growl. MacCready fired again, hitting a mohawked man in his chest, his body crumpling like paper to the asphalt. 

“Shoot it,” Fox said frantically, laying her hands on the hood of the skeletal car, the small handcuff chain taunt between her wrists.

“What?” MacCready shouted, glancing over his shoulder at her as he loaded another round into his rifle. 

“Fucking shoot it!” she screamed. 

He hissed some unheard half-profanity as he spun around and aimed his rifle at the short chain between her fists. He pulled the trigger, firing a round of .308. It barreled into the hood of the car, breaking the chain in its path. Fox ripped her hands apart and shouted victoriously.  
MacCready spun around, just in time to bash the stock of his rifle into an attacker’s face. A handful of teeth skittered the ground, accompanied by a steady dribble of blood.  
Fox slid over the hood of the car and shoved her boot into the man’s chest, kicking him to the ground. She worked quickly, pinning his wrist to the cement and breaking it with a well-aimed stomp. The machete in his hand clattered to the earth and she scooped it up, spinning it once in her hand and swinging it upwards, into the face of another attacker.  
She moved through them, the dull and rusted machete hacking into flesh and sinew like her twisted scythe. Behind her, she could hear the rhythmic chinking of the bolt, moving to and fro in MacCready’s hands as he fired round after round. They moved, like a cohesive unit, until the last raider was disposed of. 

Fox stood in the middle of the maze of cars, leaned over, bracing her hands on her knees. Each breath that passed through her, felt more painful that the last. She groaned, pushing the heel of her hand into her breastbone.  
MacCready came to stand behind her, watching as she caught her breath. After a few moments, she stood erect and turned to look at him. He winced, tilting his head to look at her wounded ear. 

“You have one and one half ears now,” he said, as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. 

“You know basic math, congratulations,” she replied with a hiss. She took the ragged cloth from him and gingerly touched it to her ear. 

“That’s pretty bad,” he said through a grimace. 

“I’ll be fine, do you have a stim?” she said, giving her hand a dismissive wave. 

“A stimpak isn’t going to fix that,” he said, pointing to the mangled flesh beneath the handkerchief. 

“Well what the fuck am I going to do?” she said with a growl, “it won't stop bleeding!” 

“Come on,” he said, walking past her, towards the exit ramp. She followed, without argument, keeping the blood-soaked rag pressed against her ear-stump. He led her to a run-down metal box with wheels, that could have once been considered a trailer. Most people might consider it beneath them, to sleep in, but it was the Ritz to a strung-out raider. The only contents inside were a dirty mattress, a broken cooking stove, a few chairs and a floor full of garbage.  
MacCready grabbed a chair and set in the center of the trailer, gesturing for her to sit down. She obeyed, eyeing him carefully. Her ear had bled through the handkerchief, steadily dripping onto her shoulder once more and running in several small streams down the curve of her arm.  
MacCready slung his rifle over his shoulder and took out a combat knife. Fox watched him uselessly, her brows drawn down in a confused scowl. He placed the knife between his teeth and began to pull his belt from under the loops of his pants. Her mouth fell open, the confusion deepening in the lines of her face.

“What the fuck-” Fox couldn’t finish her sentence, as he shoved the worn belt into her hands. She looked up at him, a bewildered expression skittering across her face. He took the bloody rag from her and tossed it aside.  
Next, he pulled an old silver lighter from his pocket and lifted his knee up, angling his leg. In a single swift back and forth motion, he ran the lighter across the surface of his leg. The pale flame sprang to life and he lifted it up to his chest, cupping the flame. After he was sure it wasn’t going to die, he pulled the knife from his mouth and looked down at her seriously. 

“Bite down,” he said, gesturing to the belt as he began to run the fat belly of the knife over the flame. Fox’s eyebrows quivered as she glanced between the knife and his face.

“Wait- fuck that- just give me a goddamn stim MacCready,” she whined, her voice swirling with unashamed panic. He ignored her, heating the knife as if he’d done it a hundred times before. After he was satisfied, he approached her and glared down at her with steady blue pools.

“Bite it,” he said, more firmly. She hesitated, looking for another excuse, something to stay the hot metal waiting for her. After a moment, she finally shoved the belt between her teeth and bit down with a dramatic whine. She could taste the old leather, felt it squeak under the pressure of her teeth.  
MacCready took the edge of her earlobe between his fingers and pulled gently. With his other hand, he brought the sweltering belly of the knife down on the open wound that was once her upper ear.  
She let out a scream, clenching her eyes shut. Her stomach dropped to the center of the earth. She could hear the sizzle of her flesh, the smell of cooking copper that her own blood, seeping into her nostrils. He didn’t hold the knife there long, before pulling away.  
She groaned in relief, parting the sticky flesh of her eyes and staring up at him through pools of tears. But she didn’t find relief there, only his determined face as he heated the knife again. 

“ _WHAGH_?” she garbled through the belt, as she realized it wasn’t over yet.  
He worked the fat side of the knife over the flame, using small, circular motions to thoroughly heat metal. Fox slumped in the chair, shaking her head as she worked up the courage to endure the knife again.

“You’ve had your whole leg ripped off doll, I think you can handle some routine cauterization,” MacCready sighed, as he grabbed her earlobe again. She braced herself, sinking her fingers into the sides of the chair, her body rigid and trembling.  
He brought the knife down again, tilting it back and forth to cover the sections he had missed before. He held it there longer, but only slightly. Fox clenched her teeth together so tightly it hurt, her neck throbbing at the pain. She let herself scream again, as she rocked back and forth in her seat. It reminded her of labor. How the pain was so much, her body took over. She had no choice but to scream, it felt like it was all happening on its own. Autopilot.  
She opened her eyes as he pulled the knife back and looked down at her, a look of apology on his face.  
She resigned herself to the pain, realizing he was going to do it again. Her body sagged in the chair, her mind reeling over thoughts, anything to minimize the pain. Shaun, Nate, the white-hot searing agony she endured as her leg was pulled from her body, like wings from a fly.  
As MacCready lowered the knife for the third time, she whined into the leather, but did not protest, her tired body accepting it, as it had the absence her leg, the birth of her son, the death of her husband and countless injuries before or to come. It was all relative, after all.

MacCready finally stepped back, letting out a relieved sigh. Fox sat in the chair, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling rapidly under her black coat. He watched her a moment, letting her recover, before reaching forward and taking the belt from her mouth. 

“I think every raider and mutant in a ten-mile radius heard you,” he said, as he slipped the belt back into each loop and notched it.  
She sighed, watching him from under half-lidded eyes and let out a small, pathetic moan in response. 

“Come on, we better get moving,” he added, turning on his heel to duck back out of the trailer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter turned out A LOT longer than I intended. There was a fair amount I wanted to fit into this, so I might have gone overboard a bit. But, if you survive that wall of text... I hope you enjoyed it. And thank you for the Karma! I'm always a little nervous sharing my work, heh. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and of course, more to come! 
> 
> Don't be afraid to leave a comment and give me a little bit of encouragement. I would so appreciate it. 
> 
> (Ernie is not the same as Eager Ernie, just to clarify. Just another Ernie knocking about in the Commonwealth.)


End file.
